Falling Apart . . .

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I have traveled to the end of this road –  The realization that this journey was over was swift and clear.  Never mind what the street signs are showing, it is time to find a seat and check out that less-traveled road.  This is my route.

First decision when hitting the wall was to quit my job.  My last day is August 11th.  It will be a sad day because this job has been good to me.  The friends I have made have enhanced my life beyond explaining.  What I have learned about restaurant management is priceless, and the leadership I had the privilege of working with was selfless and sincere.

So, what the hell is going on?

There is always – ALWAYS – a catalyst to change, and this was no different, but knowing the catalyst is meaningless when understanding the change.  Believe me when I tell you that I did not run off with the Shamrock man.  I did not become allergic to Italian.  I am not moving back home.  There was no drama.  I was not fired.  I am not terminally ill., I did not lose my mind.  I did not win the lottery.  I did not get hired as aide to the President.  I am not pregnant.

It was just time for me to go . . .

Life can be mysterious, but there are moments of clarity where you know that you know that you know.  This decision was just that clear.

If you follow this blog, and know me, then you are aware that the last 5 years have been brutal.  I took the beatings and kept moving forward caring for my granddaughter, holding back the tears, shoving the pain aside and taking the next painful step. Numb is the word.  Weariness is real.

In order to feel again, I must grieve.  I have to stop and feel the pain of a very sad divorce, and mourn my dad, remember my moms – both of them, acknowledge the losses, accept the truths, face the facts and get up, take a step, and start all over again.

I always knew this day would come, but it had to be when I had time to stop – and when I felt safe to do so.

After I fall apart, what will I do?  I have not a clue, but I am very excited for the rest of my life.

Having time to fall in love, explore, mediate, dance, dream, hug, believe, and laugh will be the tools I use to put me together again, and then I will be strong and sure and settled.

Everyone faces these times, so I am nothing unusual, but I am just transparent enough to tell you about it.  I hope my journey encourages you to know that life can be thrilling, whether you are falling apart or coming together.  Everything is a life lesson.

You won’t see me as much, or hear from me as often – for now – but rest assured that I will be back – with a purpose and a plan and wonderful, delightful, delirious happiness!

 

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Why I Cry and Cry Again . . .

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I am a crier. Not a town crier, mind you, but a boo too, sniffle, sniff and red-faced crier.

When younger, I would cry but it wasn’t that often. After I got through the skinned knee stage, my tears would be contributed to school girl disappointments that I thought surely would bring the end of my world. My mom would pat my back, tell me everything would be alright, and would I please go fold my laundry. Daddy would get a bit impatient, ask me what was wrong (so he could fix it because that is what daddies do), then try to make me laugh.

Girls get the “over-emotional” label unfairly written on their personality, but emotions involve much more than tears.  Maybe we just express ourselves easier, but easier is not the best word because there is nothing easy about crying.  Tears of any kind will eventually leave you profoundly changed – refreshed, cleansed, aware, and wiser.  Personal growth is never easy and never experienced without your tears.

Through the 20’s, 30’s, 40’s, I seldom cried. There were personal tragedies and betrayals and hopelessness, and I certainly did my share of sobbing through these times, but for the most part, I stayed pretty tough, dealt practically and lived with an encased heart.

Today, life is quite different.  Yes, it is true that I cry nearly every day because nearly every day something happens that causes me to cry.

Living in the Rocky Mountains has allowed me the freedom to reintroduce my soul to feelings and wonderment, sadness and hope.  I cannot have a pretense or carry a façade when nature has so freely welcomed me to live out loud.

When Zia was born, tears came without warning, and even speaking of her tightened my throat, as the awe of this little girl overwhelmed me. Even now, nearly 5 years later, the love I have for her sometimes leaves me powerless to hold back the tears.

When my marriage ended, I cried buckets full of sadness. This was the darkest season of my life, but I saw the tears as a salve applied to bring my healing, and it did.  Sadness is now replaced with acceptance and trust that I am doing just fine.

Today, I cried, out of the blue, because I received the most caring message from an old friend whom I had not talked to for decades. He shared with me high school memories he had kept, and that I have thought about  for over 40 years but never talked about.  His kindness, and learning that he remembered the moments just as I did, was enough to bring me to tears of sweetness. There was no way to put this gift into proper words, but tears speak a perfect language.

Throughout my day there are many moments filled with kindness and goodness, and I cry.  Likewise, when I see injustices toward a weaker soul, I cry.  Every time I hear my brother tell me he loves me, I cry, because of the love I have for him.  Hallmark movies leave my popcorn soggy, and many times sheer happiness turns itself into tears.  When one of the young men at work gives me a hug and says, “Thank you” for helping or encouraging or understanding me, I cry.    If I hear a child cry, I want to hold him, listen and hug away his sadness.  When I pledge allegiance to the flag, I tear up, and I can never hear “Amazing Grace” without my soul being thankful through the tears.  I weep for the homeless and hungry and sob for missing babies who will never return home, and I will cry when these same little ones are found.

It may sound strange, but I rarely cry when I am sick, unless the nurse has just stabbed me the seventh time trying to get blood.  There is nothing sentimental or endearing about a bed pan or head hung over a toilet, so cranky works here just fine, but I have never heard the words that sound like terminal or transplant or there is nothing more to do.  If that day comes, I will cry.

Some people will cry when angry, and I once was one of them because I was too afraid to express myself.  These days, when angry, I deal with it without the tears.  This is not to say that words don’t hurt and my feelings aren’t injured, but these I can deal with intelligently, or so I try.

This would not be written by me if it were not completely honest and transparent about my life and the its lessons, so I must also tell you that I do still cry from sadness and hopelessness and loneliness, but the tears dry up quickly and are remembered as just another moment in time.

Will I ever cry myself dry?  Do others cry as often as I do?   Will I one day be tough again and unaffected by the life around me?  Should I apologize for the times my tears expose me?   I have decided all the answers whisper, “No”.  This is who I am, and when my days happen with wonderment and friendship and love and acceptance and life, my heart will cry, and my tears will fall, and I don’t know how to tell me not to.

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